


Age Old Advice

by ashford2ashford



Series: Midnight City - The Felt [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bloody in the first chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashford2ashford/pseuds/ashford2ashford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stitch saw everything and nothing at the same time. From the brush of fingers over an effigy, the battered old tailor could see pain and torture and all the physical pain inflicted on any Felt member. All too often, the other members of the Felt came to him with their problems, especially one in particular...</p><p>Then again, Die has always been a strange one to Stitch...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction - The Doctor Is Always In

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever Homestuck fic!   
> Not all the chapters are written in the same way as the starting chapter. This one is merely an introduction. 
> 
> This is set in an AU after the events of Homestuck. The Felt are all humans once more, retaining only a few of their abilities, and are stuck in Midnight City alongside The Midnight Crew and Problem Sleuth. No doubt the afore mentioned will show up sooner or later throughout the fic, but for now, I'm telling it from the Felt's point of view.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Your name is STITCH and you are more than aware that there is something horribly wrong with the situation that The Felt are in at the moment. 

First and foremost, you are...somewhat happy, you guess, to be alive once more. Not just as a creature of a temporal design, forced to serve under Lord English and his twisted ideas for universal domination, but finally once again all of you are human and that does not feel entirely too bad! You remember things that you had once forgotten (friends, family, the smell of coffee in a morning, warm lips upon your own before you went to work every day) with all the distortion from living in a world and a time zone that was not your own, and you finally can register the full scale of emotions that you had once thought to be dead and buried, but you are still aware - somewhere, at the back of your mind - that this good thing will not last long.

At the current moment you find yourself staring up at the effigy of one of the members of The Felt that you have not really had the pleasure of getting to know as well as you should have. Other people's problems are their concern, of course, and you've never been nosey really, but you were a father once in your past life (a grandfather probably later still) and you cannot help but see the rest of this criminal organisation as the most messed up children you've adopted. There has been many a time that one of the members of the group has sat in your boutique and chatted their problems away to you whilst you've sat there sewing, but this particular member has never set foot in the room that you work in. You mean that. Literally. 

He's seen the inside of the boutique, yes, but all that ever required was him shyly knocking at the door, peeking his head round the side, and telling you that Crowbar/Doc Scratch/Snowman/etc etc required your presence. Then he usually disappeared again to do...whatever it is that he usually does in his spare time.

It kind of irks you that you do not even know that much. You know absolutely nothing about him, save the heists he's been on with you and the others and the times you see him slinking around in the mansion as though he is always lost, so your own mixed interest and horror was most certainly piqued when his effigy suddenly started sprouting wounds on the wrists and neck and torso. He's lucky that you all became human yet kept some of your temporal abilities. You are able to stitch him up and help him if it comes to that, but for now this this just...unusual.

The number six position in The Felt, Die, has always been an unusual case for you. Even when you barely existed at all, warping in and out of existence at Scratch's will, the thin and wiry creature that he was always kept itself to itself. His eyes were always wide, they still are now, looking this way and that and all around him, as though expecting every single shadow to leap out and grab him. Sometimes they did, but that was usually Itchy, Trace, or Fin playing a humourless prank...

He twitches when spoken to, stammers out his replies, and then vanishes before questions are asked or he spills too much information. From what you've seen, he is good at what he does, there's no questioning that. On the field he can be terrifying with a gun, stealthy when in a heist, and can provide the right sort of information from a stakeout, but once in the mansion and given no purpose or role, he becomes lost and he flinches and he wanders and is not heard from until he is next needed.

This is not the first time his effigy has done this, but before you were devoid of most emotion and completely devoted to your duty to serve Lord English's cause, and so the fair few times this has happened to Die's human body are actually starting to concern you now. It's always the wrists and neck first. They're not deep enough wounds so that he would kill himself on them, but they do remain open and bleed for quite some time. Long enough so that the next series of wounds can appear. Intricate markings that sprout out over his chest. You can imagine the amount of blood drawn from that and how his pale thin body must look with these patterns of red adorning his frame. You sit and wait and then when you are sure that no more will appear, or that he has lost too much blood, you take needle and thread and patch him back up until not even a scar remains. 

The wounds never reopen until weeks later when the process is repeated once more.

It is starting to grate on your usually impeccably calm nerves and cause you more concern than you should have.

You mumble to yourself as you light a cigar and wait for the intricate lines to stop spreading out like some blood red roots extending their reach outwards across the whole of his chest, before you start to sew him up once more. It would be a sad case if he bled to death. 

Is this just a simple case of self harm and mutilation or is it something beyond that?

You know from his abilities that he's someone who is closely connected with voodoo, so perhaps this is a ritual of some kind?

You're not sure and that perplexes you even more so. 

Just as you finish stitching up his wrists and start on his chest, the sound of tearing fabric catches your attention and causes you to glance siderways once again at the effigy's hands. Torn open again. Deeper this time. A few other cuts around the outside of the marks this time. Something a lot more violent than what Die usually does to himself.   
Pulling your glasses down over your nose, you squint at the wounds and then lean back, blowing a small ring of smoke from your cigar. Even if logic dictates that you should do it, you are somewhat hesitant about fixing him up this time. This has never happened before. Not in all the time you've been doing this bizzarre dance around the other male's effigy. 

Taking needle and thread to one of the wounds only confirms your suspicions.

Before you can even finish this time, Die's arm explodes in a brutal series of lacerations and deep jagged wounds and you know now that he is most definately in trouble somewhere. These are not the sorts of wounds one can inflict on oneself. Somehow this forces more concern from your gut into your throat and you have the overwhelming urge to find out exactly where Die is and stop this nightmare from happening. 

There is only so much you can do from here. You can stitch up the wounds as many times as you wish on the plush surface of an effigy, but without the correct medical attention, any member of the Felt can still bleed to death if they go untreated physically by you. You know from experience in your past that Die would be suffering from blood loss by now, probably about to go into shock from the sudden attack on his person.

You would debate it further, but then someone knocks on your door and before you can even bark out a reply to that, Quarters ducks down under the doorway and places Die's thin pale form on the couch in your boutique. 

Number fourteen is an enormous hulk of a man, saying few words, but having strong meaning in every word that he does utter. You recall that Scratch once told you he was of native American descent, afterall you were all from different timelines and countries scattered across the world, and Quarters certainly has the height and the strength to back up that claim. You've never seen him weild a tomahawk though. These days, you'd guess, he much prefers his gatling gun. You wouldn't blame him. The type he uses is a wonderful piece of modern technology. 

Quarters, however, is not your concern now. 

There is blood everywhere and most of it is splattered over Die. He's not wearing a shirt or jacket. His bare chest is completely covered in red, the skin on his arms seems alive as blood oozes out of wounds, dripping slowly to the floor and seeping into the material of the couch's cushions. He's breathing, but only slightly, completely unconscious.   
You glance to Quarters for an explanation, but he only growls in the back of his throat and lets his thick accent sound in a response of, "Chief sent him here. You fix him up then let the Chief know if he survives the night."

Of course. Quarters is devoted to Doc Scratch. One of his most loyal followers. You try not to roll your eyes at that. You've all been 'saved' in one way or another by Scratch and his offer of immortality and power, but whatever situation Quarters had been in when Scratch hired him must have been so brutal that it warranted the complete and utter loyalty of the tall muscled male to their 'saviour'. 

When Quarters leaves, you are already pulling out the various tools needed to save Die's life. You never quite became a Doctor in your previous human life, but you had enough knowledge of the medical world to know how to save a man's life in a dire situation. It's part of the reason you became an illegal sawbones on the side of your tailoring.   
Somehow Die has found himself at the end of Doc Scratch's anger and has managed to push him to the point of attack. This does not make a whole lot of sense to you as Die does not seem the sort to ever answer back in any way, nor does he seem like he would even think of doing anything that may incur wrath from any member of the Felt.   
His now human body is frail and weak and terribly injured, but you are managing to patch him up, even if the work is tiring and goes on well into the early hours of the morning. Once you are sure that you can leave him alone for a few moments, you start to patch up his effigy once more. This time the wounds do not re-open and look perfectly smooth and unnoticed on his actual frame as you start to wash away the blood. 

As he sleeps, probably blissfully unaware of anything that happened after the attack, you light up another cigar and you watch him, making sure to check on him throughout the morning. By midday the next day, he is stable, and you feel comfortable enough to leave him sleeping there on the couch so you can go and get something to eat.

Your concern can wait until after lunch.


	2. Chapter One - Into The Waking World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After everything he had been through, Die was mostly surprised to find himself waking up in Stitch's boutique...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must confess something...
> 
> A while ago i was lurking on tumblr and I came across some awesome artwork of Stitch drawn by a user called Sannam. During a few comments, they'd said that they saw Stitch as speaking Yiddish and Die as being Cajun. I guess that image stuck with me when writing this chapter, so I have actually worked hard at picking nationalities and past life stories for all of the Felt that will be revealed throughout the fic.
> 
> Hint: I actually love what I chose for Matchsticks.

It is the evening by the time Die registers that he is still of the (barely) living world. 

His entire body aches, from head to toe, and he finds it hard to move a single muscle, but he manages to crack open his eyes and fight off the urge to blink against a dull lamplight. Somewhere in the dull throb of his heart pounding in his ears, he hears the scratchy sound of a record in a player, filtering soft piano into his thoughts. It is warm where he is, and something about the air inside the room where he's lying just makes him feel...safe. Wanted. Needed.

One by one his senses return, until he can feel the plush couch around him, as well as the blanket draped over him and the sudden sting of the IV drip in his arm. There are bandages hugging his skinny frame tightly and as the events of the previous day flood back into Die's memory, he panics and attempts to lift an arm to his face, uttering a startled cry.

Stitch's voice prevents him from moving further. It is jarring even when foreseen, "Don't move. You might hurt yourself there."

There is a concerned edge to the usual gruff tone this time, and that is more than enough to make the voodoo user stop moving out of respect for the tailor's wishes. There is movement to his right and the sillhouette of the older male shuffles into view, a strong arm pulling Die's frail body into a sitting position, making sure to not re-open any wounds or cause any unecessary pain. A glass of water is placed at his lips. "Drink up. You ain't had no water since you got dragged in here. It'll help take some of the taste away."

What taste? Oh that taste.

Die winces as he sips delicately, blood and water filling his mouth and then washing down his throat. The wound on his neck stings a little. He winces and Sitch pauses and waits for him to stready himself before offering more. It is almost a god send. Die didn't realise how thirsty he was until offered water. It cools the burning in his throat and washes away the bitter tang of his own blood. 

When he is finished, Stitch pulls his weary form to his feet again and starts to move into a small kitchen at the back of the boutique. Die watches him go and opens his moan to hoarsely croak out, "Um...S-Stitch?"

He is interrupted by a growl of, "Don't try to speak just yet. Unless you are planning on telling me what happened yesterday. I don't need to tell you that this is a serious matter. Your effigy looked like it was under some serious farpeynikn...torture, and I want to know why, you farshteyn??"

When he is angry, Stitch often lapses into Yiddish. His accent is always present in every word he says, but - much like Die with Caijun French - he always respects the fact that other members of the Felt don't speak his language. Die blinks owlishly and tries to understand. His own accent comes out when he speaks, some of his words having that Cajun ring to them, "I...er...pardon?"

"Torture!" Stitch growls suddenly. He looks terrifying when he is angry. "Farpeynikn! Torture! Brutal torture! I hadda stitch you up in record time and save your life! I don't intend to fix your problems for you, but I do need to know how often I am going to be doing this for you, Die!!"

Silence hangs between the pair for quite some time. Mainly so Die can fumble around with words in his brain and on his lips. Sometimes he stutters. Not because he has an actual stutter, but rather the process of translating English into French and then French into English takes some time inside the tornado of thoughts that is his brain. His cheeks are bright red, starting to sweat and fidget, chewing his lip. All signs of a nervous Die that would rather choose to abscond rather than explain.

"I...er...well...what I was...what this is...is..." 

In hindsight, Die is lucky that Stitch is so patient. He's lived two lifetimes already. There is always time to be patient in the battered and scarred old tailor's mind. Were he someone else, like Crowbar or Quarters or Matchsticks, he would have expected an answer right off the bat without hesitation. Instead he eases himself into the comfy confines of an old chair he's had in the Boutique for years and lets Die struggle with his words in his own time. 

Whiskey is poured into a glass in the event that this takes longer than he'd planned.

Eventually Die settles on, "....I can...I can tell you...anything, right?"

The question is so meek and sudden that Stitch can't help but be surprised. He fixes Die with a stare, watching as the other nervously fiddles with the bandages covering his wrists, before grumbling low in his throat and nodding softly, "...of course."

It seems to reassure Die enough for him to carry on with his usual faltering stammer, "I can...tell you a secret? And it...it will not be shared with...the other Felt?"

Die's accent is thick in his throat. When he is nervous, he pronounces his words clearly, he thinks before he speaks. He is clearly getting himself worked up over something, and whatever this something is determined the necessity to hurt him last night. Stitch feels he is past the point of no return already. He's heard a thousand and one problems in his long lifetimes. What's one more added to the pile?

"You got my secrecy, Die. You can trust me. Please. Continue." The old tailor slash sawbones throws caution to the wind.

Die nods, as though reassuring himself that it will be okay in his head, and then bites his lip again. He shifts a little, still adjusting to the bandages and the medical equipment surrounding him, and pulls his knees up close to his chest, resting his chin on them. His eyes are desperate and pleading as he starts to talk.  
"I suppose...you have noticed it by now, Monsieur Stitch...the wounds that appear sometimes?"

Noticed would be an understatement, but Stitch bites his tongue and nods in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. He has never had the pleasure of finding out what goes on inside Die's head before. This is an opportunity that he is determined will not go to waste. He does not need to be forceful or push Die for further explanation. The barriers of Die's mind are down. He continues without prompting.

"As you know, when we were brough into The Felt, we were given...powers. Abilities that Lord English bestowed upon us. We were killed and discarded once Scratch...became the demon. We were no longer needed, oui?"

Stitch remembers that he did not exist for a while. It was kind of peaceful for him. He was old enough already. His time had passed an age and a day ago.

"When we were brought back here, to this city, as humans once more, I realised I still had my abilities, but they were much more...taxing to use. This is the right word, I believe? What had once been a simple chant now required tribute. What had been a tribute of food or flowers before now required my blood. These were the rituals that Scratch bestowed upon me, the rituals that went against the Voodoo I had been brought up with, but I still performed them because....because...."

Die's stammer seemed to get worse. He was visibly shaking now, the weight of his secret pressing down hard on his body, sobs wracking his thin frame. Stitch wanted to help him, to comfort this lost boy, but feared that interraction would close up Die's train of thought once more. 

It was better to let him continue on this track...

When Die's eyes met Stitch's one good eye they were wide and pleading. The terrified eyes of a desperate man. "...Doc Scratch is human, Stitch! He...he still has some power, enough power to be feared, but...but he is human again, just like us, and...and....he is no longer omniscient!"

The gravity of the situation came crashing down over Stitch's head like a tonne of bricks. His eyes widened in understanding, realisation that Die could actually be killed for sharing this with him dawning upon him, that overwhelming urge to protect and to father coming back to him ten fold. Scratch could no longer see every possibility. He could not see what they were doing. There was no past or future for him now. All that knowledge closed off for the sake of having some of Lord English's power in his human shell. 

Suddenly the abilities that Die had been given made more sense. They had not been necessary before, when Scratch was a Guardian and The Felt existed in a form not of their own world, but Lord English had probably seen his own defeat in the future. He had planned this. He had planned to bring them all back in case he failed, find another timeline to lurk in, and had planned all along to use Die's rituals to continue to be able to see all that lay before him. 

Stitch felt his voice crack when he tried to use it. There was a rage bubbling up inside him that he had not had the pleasure offeeling in a long time, "...He's using you...to predict the future, isn't he? He's...making you do rituals that require blood...so he can continue to be a goddamn know-it-all, ain't he??"

Die nodded and then cried into his knees, his body curling up on itself, so battered and scarred and broken. It was not his fault. None of them would have ever asked for this. As much as The Felt bickered and whined with each other, he knew that not a single one of them would ever wish this upon a fellow member. Not even someone as unpopular as Die. 

Yet a thought nagged at Stitch, "Quarters brought you here. Does he know about Scratch's...situation?"

Die shook his head sadly, continuing on with his halting broken phrases, "Non. Scratch always has him call me into the office and then requests he leaves. Only you and I know about this now. Perhaps Snowman knows? I am not sure of this."

Leaning back in his chair, Stitch felt the urge for a cigar and decided it was time he treated himself to one. Standing on shaking legs, he closed the curtain that sectioned off where all his fabrics and effigys were kept, and pulled a cigar from its case, lighting a match and discarding it in the tray on the table once used. 

"You want one?" The case was offered to Die, but politely refused. 

"Non, merci. I have...cigarettes in my jacket pocket in my room. I shall have one when I am allowed to leave here."

Die was one of the few Felt members who did not need asking that he not smoke in the Boutique. Even when offered, he still declined. For all his lack of experience and interraction with his group, Die was always polite.

There was another moment where the pair sat in silence, but it seemed different than before. Less thick. Less tense. Like an understanding had been passed between them and they no longer needed words to enjoy each other's company. In Stitch's mind, he believed he'd broken down enough of Die's defenses to add him to the list of people that knew they could talk to him whenever they needed him. His door was now always open for the Cajun and Die seemed to understand that.

Eventually, Stitch leaned over and checked the bandages and the equipment around the number six position in The Felt. As human as they were, Stitch noted the advanced healing still remained to some extent. Die was looking fine. 

The bandages were removed and Die was allowed to move. His long limbs stretched out at either side of him, bones cracking from his day of misuse, a soft pleasured whine escaping his throat. Aided by Stitch, he was able to get to his feet and attempt to walk. He seemed a little less gloomy than he usually was. A soft smile graced his lips as he thanked Stitch for his assistance. 

Smiling himself, Stitch sighed and rested the half a cigar he held on the edge of the tray, pulling open his Boutique curtains and retrieving Die's shirt, jacket, and hat for him. They'd been cleaned and repaired, looking as good as new, and a look of deep gratitude passed over the voodoo user's face. 

"I hadda lotta time on my hands whilst waiting for you to recover." Stitch growled softly. 

Die was as thankful as ever, "Oh merci! Merci! I...I appreciate this!"

As soon as his clothes were on his body once more, his hands went straight to his pockets, pulling out a set of pins and his voodoo doll. Not to run away for once. Just to check that they were still there. Stitch had decided to leave the doll alone. He figured it would be easier to deal with Die that way. A sign of trust.

His gut instinct was never wrong. Die seemed happier still by this. Those sleep deprived wide eyes seemed to shine a little with joy. 

Still, Stitch would not allow himself to be seen as affectionate in any way for very long. Eventually he huffed and waved his hand at the Cajun with a dismissive gesture, "Now go on. Scram. Don't get yourself too beaten up next time, okay? I got work to be doin'."

Die nodded eagerly and skittered towards the door, bowing politely as he left, "I will not! Thank you! Merci! Many thanks to you once again, Monsieur Stitch!"

Then he was gone and Stitch was left alone with the secret he shared with number Six, as well as a new view on a fellow team member. It was progression with Die, but a new reason to worry regarding Doc Scratch. Stitch would have to simply observe and wait this one out, he supposed. He sighed. 

He was really getting too old for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line that Stitch adds some little bits of Yiddish into reads as:  
> "Don't try to speak just yet. Unless you are planning on telling me what happened yesterday. I don't need to tell you that this is a serious matter. Your effigy looked like it was under some serious torture, and I want to know why, you understand me??"


	3. One Step Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Die starts to open up to Stitch a little

"M...Mr Stitch?"

That was rare. 

As soon as that familiar trembling tone sounds in the air, Stitch glances up from the shirt he is sewing just to make sure he is not hearing things, wondering if at last he has finally gone crazy. Sure enough, there is young Die, poking his head around the corner of the door, looking every single bit as terrified as he normally does. 

Perhaps that is his normal look, Stitch muses, reaching for a small glass with brandy and ice in it, taking a small sip as though to prepare himself for whatever it is that the voodoo user has to say. 

It has been a week or so after the incident with Doc Scratch, and Die seems a little chipper than he was when he had been on death's door, with the added bonus that Stitch has not had to fix any suspicious wounds on his effigy since then.

Eventually, after leaving Die standing there for a while, Stitch clears his throat, "What can I do fer ya there, Die?"

Pleased to be acknowledged, his eyes lighting up somewhat, the other edges into the Boutique a little. It is the first time he has ever dared to step foot in here on his own without any kind of prompting (or being carried in there covered in blood) and Stitch can not help but chuckle to himself a little at how their last meeting brought out this small boost in confidence. 

Despite the circumstances, of course.

It is still a small while, however, before Die actually musters up the courage to speak once more. When he does, his eyes dart nervously around the room, trying to look anywhere but actually at Stitch. 

"I was...wondering if you would...like any help with anything around the...boutique?" 

It is an unusual question, but Stitch has heard it enough times to know that it translates as 'can i talk to you about my problems?' Another soft chuckle and then Stitch leans back in his armchair, fixing Die with a stare from his remaining eye. "There ain't really anythin' I need help with around here, Die."

He's not going to make it easy on Number Six. If the other wants something, he can overcome that last barrier stopping him from asking first. The way Stitch sees it, it's a learning curve. He does like Die somewhat. The other is polite and kind and never too much of a problem to anyone, but Stitch, first and foremost, is someone who does not believe in making other's decisions for them. 

"Oh." Die looks dissappointed, more so than usual, but instead of just leaving it at that he gives a shy glance upwards at the aged tailor and worries his lower lip with his teeth. "Um...is there a chance that...well...that is if you are not too busy, Mons...Mr Stitch..."

Sighing softly, Sitch allows the stammering to continue, placing his sewing down on his lap and giving Die his complete attention, "Yeah?"

"....Perhaps I could...sit in here for a while with you? Maybe...talk to you about things?" 

Close enough.

Stitch motions with a hand to the couch, "Be my guest, Die. What is it that ya need to talk about? I'm all ears."

Die speaks as Stitch carries on with his sewing. After being given free reign to talk, Number Six does it readily, eagerly, yammering on about how his week has been, who has teased him, what pranks were pulled on him, and what he enjoyed doing in his spare time. Most of it is literally him complaining about the things that happen to him, often trivial little things that he is clearly being over sensitive about. Stitch has a feeling that Die will return time and time again with these minor problems, if only because he now has someone who will listen to them.

Responding with the occasional 'hmm' and 'yeah' the scarred old tailor lights up a cigar and pours himself another brandy. Die is offered one, but politely refuses. 

Eventually, Die talks about a few rituals he did within the week, about his morning prayers and his evening tributes, and it is then that Stitch glances up with interest. For all his knowledge, Stitch confesses that he has never had the chance to learn about the voodoo culture. Not that he has ever wanted to either, but now is as good a time as any to start.   
It is something he doesn't know about, therefore something he should probably ask about, just so Die doesn't feel like he is making the conversation one sided. 

"Is that there a voodoo thing you do?" Stitch questions.

Die pauses for a moment and thinks the question over, before nodding eagerly and speaking in a bright and happy tone, "Oh! Oh yes! Yes! Every morning I say the Lord's Prayer and every evening I burn insense before I go to sleep!"

"The Lord's Prayer? Ain't that a Christian thing?" Stitch's brow furrows in confusion.

A soft smile crosses the other's face, a knowing one, "Oh, New Orleans Voodoo derives itself from Christian roots, actually. There are a lot of religions in New Orleans. It was such a beautiful city before I..."

It is then that suddenly, without reason, Die cuts himself off, shaking his head, "Hmm...it's just a very nice city."

Before Stitch can question the halting of that train of thought, Die stands and stretches himself out like a thin wiry green cat, bowing politely to the older male, "Well, I fear I have taken so much of your time up, Mr Stitch. I have a lot of things to be getting on with. Good evening to you!"

As soon as the other leaves, Stitch ponders on the brief chat for a while, finishing off his brandy and cigar. It seems like Die did a complete turn around as soon as he started speaking of his own experiences. 

Perhaps there is more to his past than Stitch could ever imagine?

Heaving a great sigh, Stitch has a feeling that Die will return to unload more 'problems' soon enough. These things have a way of repeating themselves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually just a few thoughts I had floating around regarding this fic and I thought I might as well publish it. Any progress would be appreciated, I imagine.


	4. Stakeout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Die goes on a stakeout with another member of the Felt and is almost horrified by what he learns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to originally be a one shot story of its own, but I decided to add it into this storyline, as it will serve to make the next chapter make more sense. Of course, this won't remain as a fic from Stitch's POV for very long. It does become more Die centred.

"I can't fuckin' believe I am sat 'ere with you."

"..."

"I mean, seriously? If they're gonna make me fuckin' sit 'ere all bleedin' night starin' at the same bloody door, they could 'ave at least 'ad the decency to send someone other than you."

"...."

"Fuckin' hell. You're quieter than the dead, mate. The real life of the party."

Silence stretches between the two members of the Felt sat in the car overlooking the club on the corner of the street. One of them hangs an arm lazily out of the window, smoking a cigarette, shirt sleeves rolled up incredibly thick muscled arms. The other huddles in on himself, watching over his knees as people enter and leave said club at random intervals. The air in the car has turned bitter between the pair. 

Matchsticks spits to the side and takes another drag of his cigarette, his thick cockney accent harsh on each word uttered, "Wasn't like this durin' the Great Fire of London, I can tell ya. No fuckin' about. Just simple in and out job. Whole city in ruins. Fuckin' wonderful."

It is then that Die glances to the side, his wide sleep deprived green eyes taking in the sight of the shaved head and harshly chiselled features of the other, curiosity lighting up a little in his gaze. His own Cajun accent sounds so soft in comparison to the harsh words pronounced by the third tallest member of the Felt. A few words are hazarded, "I thought that...the Great Fire was...started by accident. In a...bakery?"

As smoke drifts around Matchsticks' head, he grins, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth. In Die's mind, in that moment, he looks like the devil himself. At home in the pale grey whisps, his eyes flashing menacingly, "That's what we wanted ya to think."

"...."

Die returns to his silence, uncomfortable once more, unsure as to why him and Matchsticks were even paired together on this stakeout. It turns out that silence doesn't suit the large cockney male's idea of being stuck in a car with another person. 

".....You know what I hate about stake outs?"

"Non. What?"

"....The waitin'. The bloody waitin'. Whole hours of sittin' there and waitin' for abso-bloody-lutely fuck all to 'appen! And then! When shit does bloody 'appen, it's over in bloody seconds because ya just get out and fuckin' lamp the guy!!!!"

"Lamp?"

"Yeah! Bloody...you know?"

Die watches with fascination as Matchsticks does a punching motion in the air, flexing the muscles of an arm that could probably break every bone in his body without any effort at all. The voodoo practicioner hums thoughtfully, "Lamp. Hmm."

It is a routine stakeout. Some punk who works for the Midnight Crew got too cocky and too confident and decided to brag about something or other he knew. Idiots like him keep the Felt busy. Die does not approve of lurking in the shadows and stalking people before lunging in and beating them senseless, but no one can deny that he is somewhat good at it. He's patient and therefore capable of keeping an eye on one location until the target shows his face.

The only problem with Die is that he is not as physically strong as some of the members of the Felt, therefore it is usually one of the stronger and larger members that accompany him on said stakeouts. This time, he has had the incredible bad luck of being paired with Matchsticks. 

Loud, brazen, cocky. Always swearing, always cursing. A man of ideals and ideas that should have been erradicated a long time ago. From what Die has heard about him, he was dragged into the Felt during the Great Fire of London, and was one of the first members to be recruited after Crowbar and Quarters. Stakeouts with him are often tense affairs. Luckily, they have been brief before now, but this one, however, seems to be taking its time in drawing to a close.

There is more silence that passes between them, hanging in the air like a barrier seperating them, the only sound being the rustling of cloth as the larger male lights up another cigarette and flicks back the clasp on his lighter. Smoke drifts around the shaven head of the taller and intimidating one.

Then, unexpectedly, "So, yer into that voodoo are ya?"

Die blinks up owlishly at Matchsticks, as though unable to register that he has been spoken to, "P...Pardon?"

A sigh, a roll of the eyes, and then - harshly, "Voodoo! Bleedin' hell. Are you into voodoo?? It was a bloody question!!"

Fighting back every urge to flee, Die nods, "Uhm, yes. Yes. I am. I am - was, on my way to becoming a very important figure in the tribes."

Matchsticks curls his lip back, "You ever seen any demons?"

More confusion, "Demons? Non. Why would I?"

Breathing out smoke, Number Eleven growls a little, speaking as though he did not even hear the other, nor wish for a reply to his previous question, "Bloody witchdoctors an' voodoo priests, and dark magic. All of ya. Satanists. S'what you are. Bleedin' Satanists. It's people like you who convert good men, you know??"

He's not speaking directly at Die, that much is clear, but the resentment that lingers around the smaller male's beliefs is enough to make even the cowardly Felt member speak up, "I have never converted anyone in my life! Where do you get this...this impression from???"

It is an unusual conversation to be having. Matchsticks is one of the Felt members who tends to keep himself to himself. It surprises Die that he has even come this close to discovering that the bald Cockney dislikes the practice of voodoo in such a sudden manner. 

Of course, it is then that Matchsticks says something that makes sense, "It goes against the Church. Your voodoo. Bleedin' against God innit?"

Okay. So Matchsticks is a Christian. That revelation is jarring and unusual, but not completely unexpected. Afterall, the taller male does have a habit of cleansing most of his problems with fire. It is not unlike him to have probably burned a few 'witches' in his lifetime. A lot of things suddenly make sense really. 

Die's forehead creases with shock as Matchsticks continues on that train of thought, one arm hung limply out of the car window, cigarette still in hand, using the other to gesture occasionally in whatever general direction the Englishman happens to be looking at. When he speaks he breathes out smoke like some great green dragon, "I mean, don't get me wrong here, Die, I think you're a champion bloke, but sadly you just ain't a lamb of God, are you? There's a special place in Hell for all you Satan worshippers. If we weren't part of the same gang, I'd have probably burnt you at the stake. Nothing against you personally of course. Just because of your devil worship, really."

It just keeps getting worse. The longer Matchsticks is allowed to continue, the more elaborate his schemes for hypothetically punishing Die for voodoo worship become, until the small Caijun is practically curled up in his seat in terror, fearing for his life despite being reassured several times that the taller male does not actually intend to go through with said ideas. Matchsticks talks of Parliament and Monarchy and God a lot. He talks about his radical ideals and his obviously right wing opinions in an almost casual manner. Those old ways of thinking no longer apply, and he knows that much, but it does not stop him from expressing every thought that comes to him regarding how things were run back in his time.

"Me Mam, now me Mam, she was a good strong Catholic woman, and me Dad prayed more times a day than you can bloody imagine. They always told me that I'd succeed in life if I followed the path of God. Granted I strayed a little, arson an' all that, but bloody hell. No one's really a Saint, are they? It's just, if you're gonna commit one or two little crimes of necessity, then you've got to be following the right God is all..."

As Die feels he is about to reach breaking point with the insane fanatical ramblings of the bald member of the Felt, he suddenly notices the doorway to the club opening and the man they had been waiting for staggers out with some well dressed woman hanging off his arm, bragging about something clearly and laughing in a n over exaggerated manner. Unable to stop himself, he jabs Matchsticks in the arm somewhat fierce and is only spared from getting a fist to the face in response, by the Cockney noticing that Die has spotted something that he was missing whilst lost in his thoughts. It hurts to punch a man made of solid muscle, but the Voodoo user feels somewhat pleased that he was able to shut the other male up successfully - even if he were risking his face doing so.

After a few moments of watching and waiting to see what their target would do, Matchsticks gets out of the car, throws his cigarette to the ground and stomps on it. 

Die finally gets to see how one goes about 'lamping' a man at least...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was also a conversation I ended up having with someone a while back in role as Matchsticks and Die. It was such a funny take on Matchsticks, that I couldn't help but use it here. I'm hoping you all like how I portray the Felt in general. I know some takes are different than others.


End file.
